saffron gods
by kintsugii
Summary: Before humanity makes their own gods, before Red makes history by becoming Champion, before the Indigo Plateau makes enough mistakes to doom an entire region, Kanto makes a little boy from Saffron into the ruler of Team Rocket. All he wants is to make them pay. History is written by the winners. This story is written by Giovanni.
1. bull trapped in porcelain

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* * *

 **o. bull trapped in porcelain**

* * *

Welcome to Saffron City. People are going to tell you all sorts of things about this place, so I'll tell you one more: don't listen. We're all liars.

It's the only way you can rest easy. Believing in something else is just a better way of lying to yourself. The elites in their ivory towers cannibalize the lie amongst themselves as early as they can—shit like getting their kids to believe that a kind and benevolent delibird will come to their house once per year and give out presents. And then that belief blossoms into something even stranger, more sinister: the idea that the good and bad always get what they deserve. It's their belief in a just world that lets them rest easy at night, the same way that the puercos sleep with eyes weighed down by bribes, the same way that the populace dreams of a brighter future because they saw one of their own managed to claw into the gilding and become the Champion.

Down here, down in the barrios, we don't have time for that shit. Instead of one magical bird that gives you gifts, we learn about three—and their gifts to Kanto of searing wrath, galvanizing secrets, and frigid indifference. We learn the rules early, and we learn them right. Gods don't give you jackshit. They take, and sometimes they take everything.

If the gods ever give you something, it comes at a price. That's something you gotta learn young if you want to make it out alive: whoever, wherever they are, the gods only have one type of currency, the same kind everyone has. The saffron price.

If you want something, you're gonna have to _bleed._

* * *

 **.**

* * *

 **quick lil' author's note:** this is, in a sense, a parallel story to my other longform fic, _some rise by sin_. That being said, it's a parallel, not a prequel; there's no real onus to read one to understand the events of the other. And while _some rise by sin_ is very much focused on the minutiae of being a trainer in a particular flavor of apocalypse, this one is very much the reverse—there's will be a much heavier focus on human/social issues, some of which will be immediately apparent/explained, and a lot of which will not.


	2. rose the rulers of the restless

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* * *

 **i. rose the rulers of the restless**

* * *

 _"When they're staring at you down the barrel of a gun, the puercos are gonna make you into whatever they want you to be, Ani. That's how it goes for barrios like us. But that just means you have to make yourself into who **you** want to be before **they** do."_

* * *

He's staring at how her lopsided huntress's gait is written in her ankles—the way that her toes curl in and her heels never fully touch the ground—when he starts to ask the question that will burn down his whole world. "You don't walk like a barrio," Ani says, and then bites his lip. This isn't the kind of question that has a right answer; he doesn't know why he even asks. "And no one would ever have to know that you looked like one, either, because you're quimeric. So why do you…"

"Why do I run with the Rockets, instead of just passing as a gringo?" Des finishes wryly for him. "You could too, you know. Your daddy isn't a Jenny, but at least he's a puerco, and he gave you a good first name." The sickly yellow glow of the street lamp casts a halo on her dark curls as she lounges lazily against the lamppost, tossing her switchblade lazily into the air with one hand and catching it with the others. "And no one would ever know that you're a quimera. Yours isn't flashy, like mine, but your little quirk lets you see people for who they truly are." She turns to look at Ani, and for half a second she's wearing a different face, but it's still her. Widely innocent crystal-blue eyes and ruby lips framed by luxurious blonde curls that tumble down a perfect hourglass figure. The moment passes, and she's back in the only skin he's ever known her in, brown eyes and brown hair and brown skin marking them as barrios. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel frame a bitter, wolfish smile. "But why? Surely you already know. It's why you're here, too."

Ani tries to meet her gaze—that's the one thing that's the same no matter whose face she wears, and it's sharp enough to cut straight through his chest every single time—and fails.

She doesn't answer him, not right away. That's always how it is with her, a series of nesting dolls that go down so deep it's hard to tell which one is the real Des any more. "I tried passing, you know. When I was ten, my parents managed to get me into one of those preppy elementary schools. The kind where they give you monogrammed pencil cases and a plaid skirt and a ticket to Cinnabar Tech if you pay the entry fee every year. To this day, I don't even know how they managed it."

He almost smirks. Des is a naked blade covered in a gilded sheath. Her? In a prep school? "You must've hated it."

She isn't looking at him, which is a blessing, when she says, "I fucking loved it. I loved it so much. On my first day of school, I had a plaid skirt and a new face. I walked past the puerco at the gates and I smiled at him with my sweet little eyes like all the other girls there, and he smiled back. It was the first time a puerco ever smiled at me. On my first day, I sat next to this girl named Meredith, and she had a set of colored pens. Each one had this big, beautiful curly letter on it in inlaid gold. I still remember the font. M-E-R-E-D-I-T-H." Des lets one finger trace the name in the air against the graffiti tag of the brick wall across from them before her hand drops listlessly back against her side. "And on the first day of school, the teacher tells us to bring out our pens, and I didn't have any. So Meredith lets me borrow one of hers." She can't help but laugh in disbelief, even then. "Me, right? A barrio. And this bitch heiress not only looked at me, but she let me touch her shit. I looked down halfway through the class and saw that the one she gave me was the letter 'D'. For Desdemona. I thought it was a sign from the gods. So I kept it."

She pauses. One hand is frozen, twined deep into the spiral of her hair. "It sounds so stupid when I say it now. I was so proud of stealing that stupid pen. I was gonna show her what it meant to have gilding, that she couldn't hide from the barrios forever, no matter who she thought she was." Another pause. "The next day, Meredith had a brand new set of pens, and this one was big enough to have her last name too. Probably cost more than what my parents made in a week. She never suspected me. Because I wasn't _Des_ to anyone; I was _Mona_. I wore a white buttondown and blue eyes. From that day on, I played my part. I wrote my gringo name at the top of every paper. When fall rolled around and it was time to celebrate día de los muertos, I dressed up for Halloween. When my friends laughed at the barrios, I laughed along. I got to forget who I was. One of them even said I was _beautiful_." She trails off, the hints of wistful longing entering the creases by her eyes as her gaze focuses on something far, far away.

She lets the sentence hang long enough for Ani to fill it in himself. Whatever happened back then, she's here now, walking him through initiation for the Rockets. His grip on the aluminum baseball bat slackens, just a little.

"March rolled around. The Silph meltdown revolts. They shot my tio in front of a thousand people, and all I did was watch on the flatscreen in the school's gameroom." She picks each word with all the indifference of a reporter; they're both used to the reality of it. The Silph tragedy is just another blip in the history books now. "And I was standing in the middle of the room, knees shaking with shock under my plaid skirt, when one of the bitches started _laughing_. She said all the protestors were probably quimeras already from all the chemicals they were pumping through, and it was better that they got put down before they could _breed_. And the other girls were whispering too, and then laughing so hard that they didn't notice my perfect, white smile turning back into Des and my quimeric, barrio face. And then they all screamed. My friends. They loved Mona, but they were terrified of _me._ "

Ani reaches out for her; the five feet of pavement between them suddenly feels like an impossible gap to bridge. "I'm so, sorry."

"Shit like 'sorry' only matters if there's nothing you can do. I took care of it." Her hair shifts until it covers her face, hiding everything from him except the upward curl of her lips. The hand closest to him tightens into a fist around the switchblade. "I—"

A truck turns the corner and starts slugging toward them. Des pushes herself up off the lamppost and gestures to Ani with her wrist, keeping the motion low and tucked in to her waist. "Enough about the past. It's time for you to earn your stripes for the Rockets. Is your meowth ready?"

Ani nods. Tries not to get tangled up on how close he thought he'd been to the girl behind her mask, before the ditto DNA that defined and untwined her pushed him far away. He whistles, and Lobera leaps down from the roof and threads around his ankles, her tail flicking with anticipation. Pokémon don't have divisions the way humans do, but with her silky brown fur hiding inch long claws, she's a distinctly barrio meowth. She's got the same lean frame as Ani, but she walks with Des's gait.

Time to shine.

Lobera looks up at him questioningly, and he nods. "Follow her," he whispers quietly, and keeps his head lowered as he stands by the lamppost, the dull glint of the baseball bat hidden in his sweatshirt. On a street like this, he's invisible.

But Des isn't. She runs up to the truck in a plaid skirt and bombshell blonde, ready to explode. The letters on the side of the truck that spell _SILPH CO._ are visible as the hunk of metal splutters to a chugging halt. Crocodile tears are already in Des's eyes. "Please help me!" she shouts to the driver. "I lost my parents in the shopping district and I don't have my phone and I don't know where I am! You have to take me home!"

The elite speak a different language. Des had tried explaining it to him, once, but it was hard to understand unless you were there in person. It isn't about the way they hardened their r's or muted their hands, even if that's part of it. They don't ever make requests. They make demands.

And the world buys it. The truck driver rolls down his window. "Miss, this isn't a bus. I can't take passengers; I have to get this cargo to Silph as quickly as possible."

Ani can't quite see it from here; he's already flanking around the other side of the truck, but he knows what happens next. Des's lip quivers, blue eyes filling with tears. And the driver's gaze softens just long enough for Lobera to clamber through the open window and sink her claws into his face. He yells in pain.

That's his cue. Ani sprints the last five steps so that he's standing behind the truck, staring at the padlock holding the garage-like rear door shut. Just like they practiced. He swings the bat at the hinges and they explode off in a thunderclap of metal. He clambers up onto the tail bumper and heaves the door upward and open, all sound eclipsed briefly by the stormy sound of grating steel. Ani tosses the bat aside and vaults in, hauling the bag behind him so they can—

"It's empty!" he shouts, fear clouding his senses for the first time. "Des, it's empty!" His gaze jumps over the dimly-lit cargo hold. There aren't even straps or shelves that would've indicated that the truck had already dropped off its precious cargo. Ani takes a shaky step backwards, and then turns to run out the back. "It's a fucking setup! We gotta—"

He turns around and finds himself face-to-face with a pair of blue uniforms and the flickering black and orange stripes of an arcanine.

"—get out of here," Ani finishes quietly.

* * *

"Are you my lawyer?"

The man looks like he's in his mid-thirties and walks with the air of a librarian in his seventies. There's a cardigan wrapped around his shoulders and the wiry glint of spectacles in his mousy brown hair. Between the nervous tilt of his shoulders and the steely gleam of his blue eyes, he's a conundrum that Ani can't quite fully place. The man smiles nervously as he shuts the door with a resounding clang; no amount of crinkled slacks or mud-stained loafers that this stranger puts on will let Ani forget who's on what side. "I'm afraid not."

"I told the police outside—" It's important to use his gringo vocabulary here so that no one gets the 'wrong' idea "—that I'm only talking to a lawyer."

"There isn't one yet."

"Then I want my phone call."

Another smile. Gods, this guy acts like he's that old fart with the paintings and the happy little clouds. "Maybe I can offer you some advice."

"I don't want your advice. I want a lawyer."

"I'm not the one handcuffed to a Saffron PD table. I think you need all the help you can get."

Ani straightens his back and let the sides of his hands hit up against the cold metal of the tabletop. There's an audible clink as the edge of the handcuffs hits steel. "I'm listening," he says, and that's it. Anything he says can and will be used against him.

"You're the only suspect that's been apprehended. The dashcam has records of two female accomplices, but we've been unable to find either of them."

Two? Oh. Des. And Des, again.

"We saw a meowth, too."

Ani's eyes flicker a little, and the man notices. Observant bastard. Just who the hell is this guy?

"There's no pokémon registered to you, though."

 _No shit, old man_ , Ani wants to say. _Why do you think we were trying to hit a_ pokéball _truck?_ Welcome to the biggest lie to ever grow in Kanto, and now the roots are in so deep that Ani'd never be able to pull out all the weeds: that somehow, the League is a _meritocracy_. That they all get equal footing now. That it doesn't cost more than he'll make in a month to buy even one pokéball for Lobera, let alone six for a team.

The man sighs. Runs a distracted hand through his hair, and for a brief moment, when his palm is almost over his face, the creases around his forehead tighten and his eyes narrow with predatory focus. And then it's gone again when he says: "Look, kid. They want to keep you in here until you give up some info on your accomplices. They might just end up pinning this on you altogether. Which is a shame because I don't think you have any criminal record yet."

Ani tries not to go through the thought process either. He can't panic, not here, not yet; there's too much hinging on him remaining focused here. The Rockets aren't exactly going to help him bribe his way out of here; he's alone. A single wave stranded on the shore.

"Listen to me." The man leans in, conspiratorially close. "I'm a psychic-quimera. Low-level telepathy and hypnosis. Tell me what I need to know, I'll talk to the guards, and I can—"

"No, you can't."

Eyebrows straighten and then fall again. The man's impressed against his will. "The null zone that's up here should, in theory, suppress all quimeric and pokémon activity, standard containment procedure. But you don't seem—"

Eyes forward, cold. Don't avoid eye contact even if that might feel easier. "I don't need freak DNA to pick out a bad liar."

The man takes a step back. The ripples of his interest sink beneath the surface of his face again, seamlessly, like a gyarados submerging to stalk prey. "You're right. Statistically, a quimera of my age is near-impossible. Silph didn't start pumping their mutagens into the water until twenty years ago." He cracks into a boyish grin. "Although some of my colleagues say I look the part."

He laughs at his own joke, but Ani doesn't: only an idiot would mistake the youthful gleam in that man's eyes for naiveté. The man might have idiotic colleagues, but that doesn't mean Ani has to shoulder the same dumb choices.

"Ironic, right?" For a moment, the man really is talking to himself, that gleam in his eyes turning to a distant horizon. "Silph thinks they can save a few bucks by dumping their excess chemicals in the parts of town that are too poor to protest, and instead they make the children of the barrios into their own worst nightmare. I like to think that there is a karma in the world, even if there are no gods."

When Ani was a kid, still young enough to believe in gods, he prayed to the same Five that all the lost children of Saffron did. The gringos kept the people they didn't like out of their churches and their gods, so the barrio kids made their own: Lobera, the legendary blade that would kill all the wicked. Nuberu, whose toxic seeds were responsible for all of mankind's woes. Mari, elusive siren of the seas, upon whose back you could traverse any storm and whose song could heal all wounds. Antillia, lady of war, who appeared with her club and thick fists to protect all children caught in the crossfire of violence, if you only called her true name. Numantia, flying relic, symbol of their lifeblood in the face of a quashed culture.

Lobera's always been his favorite, but he's grown up a long time since that smudge-faced boy who used to hope Antillia would save him when gangs started fighting outside of his house. Ani knows better now. Sometimes the gods don't come for you. Sometimes you come for them. And there's always a price. Saffron always finds a way.

"You're awfully quiet."

"I want my lawyer."

"You haven't even heard my offer yet."

Ani raises one eyebrow expectantly. He didn't come here to listen to the old man blither on about how elites saw the world. But they've migrated from _advice_ to _offers_. "I'm listening."

The man takes a few steps away from the table. Does he always pace by habit, or is this just another ploy to demonstrate how he's still the one who isn't chained to a table here, how he can call all the shots? There isn't time to pretend to guess. The spectacles on his forehead stare to the one-way mirror on the side of the room, but the corners of the man's eyes are still pinned on Ani. "The way you answered my question earlier suggests you're just the kind of quimera I'm looking for."

"I'm not quimeric."

"Sure, you're not. And I didn't arrange for a fake Silph delivery at the exact time and place for you and any of your delinquent friends to find it."

The old man plays chess well. Ani closes his mouth before it lands him any deeper.

"So you aren't quimeric and I haven't been scouting your area for the past few months," the man continues serenely, hands tucked behind his back. "We can agree on falsehoods if you'd like. It'll be better in the long-term if we have the same story."

He pauses, as if for dramatic effect, but Ani doesn't jump at the obvious bait. He keeps his hands relaxed and open on the table, keeps the nervous tapping out of his legs.

Long-term?

"You may have heard of Lance." The man pauses to take his glasses off his head and rub them on the corner of his sleeve.

He's trying to draw out the conversation, Ani realizes. He wants Ani to fill in the gaps for him, to give him some sort of foothold for whatever the hell is coming up.

And with nothing left to lose, Ani gives it to him. "The Dragon Master."

"Don't feel the need to be polite. I know you've got a better name for him."

"Barabbas of the barrios," Ani mutters.

"So we agree. Lying about giving a man a team of dragons that he didn't even train himself and propelling him to the top of the League doesn't inherently disprove the inequalities that still exist in today's society, even if he's well-accepted by the masses."

Ani casts a nervous glance to the sheet of mirrored glass to his right, to the camera in the corner. Gringos might get to say those things and walk away, but there's no way in hell that he can. But the old man's up to something. Something big. And he's full enough of himself that maybe, just maybe, there's a better chance of going along with his plans than Ani will have alone. It's not like the courts are going to be welcoming.

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

"It's a common sentiment nowadays. Lance still has his fans, true, but the more that gets revealed about him, the less a hero for the downtrodden he becomes." It's a neutral response that doesn't take Ani's agreement into account, likely for his benefit. Gravity seems to intensify when the man, for the first time in their entire conversation, turns to fix Ani with a steely gaze. "That's why I got you."

"Me?"

"The truck you assaulted was my property, and the police have agreed to give me discretion in how my attackers are handled. If I leave this room unsatisfied, the police will throw you into their prison pipeline. When you get out, they will continue to play cat and mouse until you've jumped through enough hoops to prove yourself clean or you've left enough evidence that you can be locked up forever. Whichever comes first. This is what _they_ want." His back straightens, and in the harsh fluorescent light around them, he casts the biggest shadow Ani will ever see in his entire life. "And what _I_ want is this. You will say that you managed to steal a pokéball from me. You will capture whatever starter pokémon you can find—the meowth accompanying you looks like a healthy contender, but I will allow you to choose what your signature fighter will be." His smile turns grim. "I will check in on you periodically to make sure that you are still a worthwhile investment. And then, you will train, collect your badges, and overthrow Lance to give Kanto the underdog hero it thinks its wants."

There's a long, pregnant pause.

"You're him," Ani says quietly, the words feeling like lead weight against his tongue. "You're Professor Oak."

Another glimpse of steel beneath the serene surface of his eyes. "The one and only."

"You're setting me up to overthrow the Champion. The Champion that _you_ installed."

"The one and only."

Motherfucker's got a sense of humor. Ani'll give him that much. "Why me?"

"Why you indeed?" Oak throws his hands into the air and shrugs. "Frankly, it doesn't matter. I picked you at first because your little quimeric talent looked like it'd be useful for a different pet project of mine, but rest assured I can hand you back to the police and replace you within a day. Saffron's a large city."

He'd be stupid. Ani would be so, so stupid to turn down this offer. The courts would rip him to pieces like a pack of wolves.

But at the same time he can hear Des's voice threading through his ears, finishing the story that she'd almost given him before the truck had interrupted them and sent their lives spinning out of control.

 _"I took care of it. I burned them back. I showed them that they don't get to fuck with us just because we're barrios. Just because we die on the news every day doesn't mean we can't fight back."_

She'll never forgive him if he does this. He was about to finish his initiation for the Rockets, but taking a gringo's money and a pity-deal with the puercos will throw all that straight out the window.

But the Rockets were doomed from the start. They flail around like a fangless arbok, all venom at the ready but with no bite. There's no leadership around them, nothing to fear. They're a system of disorganized anger, an outlet for unrest that has no real source and no real target. He'd been interested in the Rockets because it seemed like an obvious way to overthrow this shitty system, but now he can see—the quickest way to the top will be from within, and it's about to be fed to him on a silver spoon.

By Professor Motherfucking Oak. The man's got goals. He's got _lots_ of goals. Ani can read the thirst in his eyes as clear as day. And if the old man's got something to prove, that means he's got a gap in his armor, and Ani can run with that chink to the Indigo League and back by the time anyone else notices.

 _I'm sorry, Des_ , he thinks quietly, shutting the picture of her and her outrage out of his mind. But he already knows. Shit like 'sorry' only matters if there's nothing you can do.

But Ani intends to do _quite_ a lot.

He stands up for the first time, barely even coming up to Oak's shoulders. It doesn't matter. He tilts his neck up defiantly. "I accept your proposal."

Oak grins, the kind of shit-eating grin that Ani can't wait to wipe away. "Excellent." He holds out a hand for Ani to shake. "Now. I never fully introduced myself. I'm Professor Samuel Oak."

It's not like Oak couldn't have gotten that information from the police records anyway. Nothing left to lose. "I go by Ani." The old man's got hands smoother than a baby compared to Ani's calloused palms.

Ani matches Oak's smile with one of his own. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing, and they're outfitting him before the slaughter. If they think kicking him while he's down is going to earn them any favors once he rules the world, he may as well be to be polite about it. Rockets, League, Oak, Silph, barrios. The field's suddenly quadrupled in size, but he's ready to take them all, Lobera by his side.

"Is that your full name?"

Ani's always hated his old man for giving him this name. It's a constant reminder that he's too gringo for the barrios, too barrio for the gringos. But now's the time for him to be both.

"Giovanni. Giovanni Campo, sir. Thank you for this opportunity. I promise I'll take Kanto by storm."

* * *

 **.**


	3. seeding clouds from muddy rivers

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* * *

 **ii. seeding clouds from muddy rivers**

* * *

"I'm looking for a, uh, Desdemona?"

"Who's asking?" An elderly woman peers wearily back from the shadow of the doorway, sunlight cracking across the wrinkles on her face. Messy black curls are held back in a loose bun that only does a token effort of keeping her hair from mixing with the bright colors of an overlarge shirt. Bags pull heavy at the skin beneath her eyes.

There's a pause. Samuel Oak traded away his anonymity long, long ago, so there's a frown across his face as he has to wonder if he's being met with ignorance, or if it's actually suspicion. There's a pause—something's about to be decided behind the scenes here, depending on how he answers—and he finally says in what he hopes is a gentle voice, "I'm Professor Oak. I've heard from some of my associates that Desdemona is very talented and I was hoping to ask her a few questions." His eyes slide past her, to the single picture frame that graces the entry hall, a faded recollection of a beaming couple and six unruly children. Even in the old greys of the picture, the mother's face looks just as old as it is now.

The house behind her is quiet.

"She's not been here for a while," the woman says stiffly, at last. "She wanted to make it big in the city like the gringos do. Desdemona hasn't got any more time for us now." Her shoulder shifts, and she turns to shut the door.

"Wait," Oak says, and she stops her movement right before he gets the door shut on his face. She's looking at him expectantly, one bony hand on his wrist to disentangle it from the doorframe, and he manages to clear his throat and ask, "Do you know where she might be?"

She disentangles herself from him and barely keeps her lip from curling in disgust. Her back is suddenly ramrod straight, an iron rod unflinching alongside the unbridled pride in her voice. "If I knew—" she enunciates each word, carefully making the foreign syllables clear on her lips "—don't you think I would've already found her?"

* * *

"Any luck, Professor?"

"No," Oak grumbles.

Jake raises an eyebrow as Oak throws his coat onto the hook by the door with a sigh of disgust. Normally the professor is a little more collected than this. Oak normally keeps his temper pretty well, so Jake's learned to be nervous when the man gets into a bad mood. Best to placate him early and such; one thing he's learned from being the professor's personal assistant for three years is that Oak is _much_ more tolerable in a good mood. "Will's making good progress."

"Oh?"

"It looks like he'll be challenging the Vermillion Gym shortly."

"I see." Oak doesn't seem very impressed. Jake doesn't really blame him; legend has it that Oak was a formidable trainer in his own right, back in the glory days.

Jacob Anderson stares awkwardly at his computer screen. That was the only scrap of good news he had for today, and he was honestly hoping it'd garner him some more positive feelings than what he'd gotten. Oak must've gotten a _really_ bad time with that last investigation.

"The girl. Desdemona. Do we have any other information on her? A sighting, a surname? The house ended up being a bust; there's just an old lady there and it doesn't seem like she's all there."

Jake jerks back to reality. His fingers are flying across his laptop before he's even aware of it, taking him down the filepaths that he knows by heart. Of all their leads, Des's folder is the smallest. "You mean the ghost? She shows up a few times on some cameras; I've got records of her crossing between Celadon a few times. She matches the case profile though. I'm sure it's her. I can run the facial recognition patterns a few more times, and—"

Oak waves his hand dismissively. "I don't need any of the old stuff. Has anything happened since last week?"

"Last week?"

"Since the Silph sting. With Giovanni."

Jake squints at the data he's got sprawled out before him; sorts it again by date just in case. It's not often that Oak is just _wrong_ about these sorts of things, and it's even rarer that Jake's allowed to be right, so it's best to double-triple-check. "Nothing. Last we've got on her is some security camera footage outside of a random casino in Celadon, and that was almost a month ago. I can check the archives downtown if you'd like."

"No need." Another dismissive wave of his hand. Jake flinches back. Whatever happened to him this morning must've _really_ pissed off the old man. "We'll root her out somehow. Keep running the facematch software; something's bound to turn up."

Oh. Jake perks up. He's got something else, no matter small, to offer up. "In other news, I gave that Giovanni kid his pokéball today, like you asked."

Oak's already putting on his coat, but something about Jake's statement makes the old man stop. "And?"

"He's a real handful. I don't know what you see in him."

"Potential," Oak says cryptically, after a long silence. He's paused halfway through putting his arm in the sleeve of his coat, his back to Jake, so it's hard to read his face.

Jake never understood people like this. They seemed to be running circles ten stories up from him, stymied deep in plans he'd never hope to untangle. If he could call the shots, he'd never think that someone like Giovanni Campo had a snowball's chance in Mt. Ember of taking down the League. But then again, Jake doesn't call the shots, and Oak does, and somehow the old man has a habit of making everything fall perfectly into place.

"Any idea where he's headed?"

"Kid walked in and out of here like staying for more than three minutes would give him pokérus. I reminded him you wanted him to start in Vermillion, but I don't know if he'll listen. He'll show up on the network soon enough; I'll check the archives tomorrow morning, first thing."

Oak resumes putting on his jacket as if nothing happened. "Of course. Update me when you've got something worth sharing. I've got a call with Professor Elm in three minutes."

And with that, he sweeps out the door again, letting it slam shut behind him.

Jake flinches back; the sound echoes in his ears for longer than he'd like, and he catches himself staring at Oak's receding figure through the lab's windows before he gets back to work.

"Just keep running the facematch software, he says," he repeats to himself in a falsetto voice. "It'll be easy, he says." He grumbles the rest of his gripes under his breath instead; it's not worth Oak coming back and overhearing anything unseemly. His eyes return to the screen again. "Desdemona," he murmurs, brow furrowing as he stares at the grainy figure of a dark-haired teenager lounging by a streetlamp. "Where are you now?"

* * *

"Good evening, Jake. You're out late. Need some more server footage?"

Jake hurries in with the same sense of purpose he's usually got; one of his hands is already typing away on his thigh like it's a keyboard. The other is wrapped tightly around a bulky workstation laptop that looks like it weighs almost more than him, the poor beanpole. He seems more nervous than usual; his eyes are darting all around the room. "Yes please, Mrs. Miyatake. I've got to pull some data. Shouldn't take me more than thirty minutes, honest."

He flashes his credentials just for show—Sara's got a good handle on pretty much anyone who enters Saffron library's server archives by this point—and waits at the turnstyle until his ID turns up positive. "Please, Jake, for the last time. No one calls me that except in writing." She laughs and makes a lazy gesture towards the gold-lettered nameplate on her desk. "It's Sara," she's saying, swiveling out of her chair so that she can follow him. It's a pain, bureaucratic things like this, but the League's always been very secretive about who and when anyone can access the security servers. Even Oak's own personal assistants.

Jake looks at her with a bit of surprise and almost trips over his feet when he realizes she's walking behind him. Sara scolds herself mentally. She's always had an unfortunate habit of walking too close to people. "I didn't mean to bother you, Sara," he says. "I can just come back when—"

She waves a hand dismissively through the air. "Don't you worry about that; it's my job." Well, technically, it's Marianne's job, but she's on sick leave for the time being, saddling Sara with the downright thrilling task of handling all the server access. "Just in case you've forgotten, they're restricting data pulls to twenty minutes, now. Don't want to stress the network out too much."

"Right. Of course."

They walk through the clandestine halls in silence for a bit, which only serves to make Marianne even more aware of the way her heels click against the tile floor. "Anything in particular you're after, Jake?"

Jake's trailing behind her, but she can almost hear the shrug in his voice. "You know the old man. Gets strange ideas in his head; he's having me gather a bunch of stuff."

"More camera footage?" she asks sympathetically.

Jake sighs. "Yup."

"Fourth time this week."

Another resigned sigh. " _Yup_."

Sara taps her own ID on the door outside of the server room. Counts to two point five as it processes in the system and the maglock on the door clicks open. The door swings wider than it looks, and she has to push Jake out of the way before it almost runs him over. Poor kid must be even more sleep-deprived than usual.

The server room runs a few degrees hotter than the rest of the building, on account of all the machinery in there. It's downright stifling, with rows and rows of beeping machines stacked up to the ceiling, but Sara can't really complain—you don't get the largest security feed archive in the region without a drawback.

Jake takes a moment to take it all in—he's always got that wide-eyed look of awe when he sees this room; Sara reckons he's probably the type to geek out over the newest computers or food processors, or anything with a plug, really—and then he walks on over to the terminal. He hovers for a moment, as if trying to remember what he was looking for, and then his hands start flying over the keyboard.

Sara takes the opportunity to check her newsfeed. Jake's a good kid; he can handle himself. She glances up every now and then when she sees the screen flashes up more frequently—there's a picture of a girl with dark, close-cropped hair hunched over next to a green, dinosaur-like pokémon that she doesn't recognize; closely after that is a meowth and a fresh-eyed boy who's got a weird mix of features that don't quite look native but don't look foreign, either; and then a short, square-shouldered kid shouting commands at what looks like an overgrown vulpix—but for the most part, she likes to leave Jake to his own devices. Oak never likes too many probes into his own "personal" projects. Whatever he's planning, Sara isn't about to get too far into his case. The League just simply isn't worth that.

Ah. One of her newsites is telling her that there's a travelling circus in Vermillion. That's always nice. She might bring her mother out to that…

Her own phone alarm jerks her out of her reverie. It's been twenty minutes already. Stupid higher-ups and their stupid rules. "Time's up, Jake." Sara looks up just in time to see the image of a teenage girl with dark ringlets vanish off of the screen. He quickly stands up and unplugs his laptop from the workstation.

"Found what you were looking for?"

He rolls his eyes, but keeps his tone light. "You know the old man," he says. "Never quite satisfied with what I'm bringing in. This might keep him occupied for a bit, though."

"Glad to hear it," Sara says, putting her phone back in her pocket. "You can always come back tomorrow if you need it."

He flashes her a mischievous smile as he scoops his own laptop back into his arms. "You know, I just might."

* * *

"Aren't you a little old to be going out on a pokémon journey, Miss—"

"Miyatake," the woman says smoothly. Her tone says working class, but her outfit says new money. Actually, scratch that. Marco looks at her clothes appraisingly. They aren't all quite in fashion; some of those brands went out of vogue a few years back. She's probably buying thrift, waiting for the white-collars to grow tired of their shit so she can fawn over their scraps.

Just what he needs at the end of the day. Another entitled penny-counter drifting in and trying to get his supplies for cheap. That's the only reason a non-barrio ever ventures into his shop these days. "My stuff tends to appeal to younger crowds. Hostel stays and the like. Most of it's used."

"It's for a friend," she says, tilting her chin up defiantly. There's an almost fearsome glint in her eyes that melts back into a reserved smile, one that seems more natural on a face like hers.

Nice. Dumb bitch buys used, potentially-stolen gifts for her friends. That's closer to the attitude he was expecting from her type, actually.

She's still standing, looking at him expectantly. "Mind if I look around?" she says at last. He could almost _swear_ that she's slowing the words down for him.

He grunts non-comittally, which of course she takes as a yes. The gold of her belt clinks a little as she strolls through the aisles, clearly not concerned that it's almost closing time.

Marco busies himself adjusting the inventory of what he's got behind the counter. At least with a bougie customer like this, he doesn't have to deal with the threat of her trying to shoplift.

In fact, he's halfway through sorting through the newest potion shipment and checking for dents or tears in the packaging—dumbfucks at the factory were starting to get lazier with that—when he realizes that she's actually being _exceptionally_ quiet. Most of the customers like her would be raining a barrage of questions.

He glances up stealthily, and is surprised to see her staring straight back at him, as if trying to memorize every detail of his face.

That's a new one. "Can I help you?" he asks slowly. Slows his words down the same way she did for him; that'll show her.

"Do you sell pokéballs?" the woman replies archly, as if she hadn't just been doing something incredibly odd.

Marco smirks. Man, she really can't be from around here. "You're gonna have to go to one of the shops downtown," he says. Bites back the sarcastic remark that's already forming in the back of his throat—if he could afford to stock pokéballs here, he wouldn't have his stupid pokémart somewhere where he needed to have bars on all the windows.

"I see," she replies, but now she's staring at his shirt. Then, she shrugs. Tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Good evening, then."

* * *

"I'm back."

Domino looks up from a stack of papers. One blonde eyebrow raises just in time to herald the heavy _thunk_ of a backpack hitting the floor. "Shit, Des. You've been busy."

"Long day." Her long-legged gait slowly restoring itself as she reverts from the shopkeep's heavyset body back into her own, Des snags herself a payapa from the fruit basket on the shelf. "Did you want anything from the store? I forgot to ask."

Domino shakes her head in disbelief. "You stole all this today?"

"The clerk there was a prick."

"Are you sure you got his face right?" Des is starting to develop a nasty habit—of rushing jobs like these, and that was where errors started to come into their already-precarious equation.

"Yeah, I basically spent the entire time staring at it. Ugly fucker. Guessed on the shoe size, but that's trivial enough." Des's tone leaves little room for argument, and she waves one hand dismissively. "Don't worry. I wore his face when I was doing the actual lifting, and I made sure to case his place wearing someone else's face, and I've never been seen talking to that lady before… well, to make a very long story short, the chain of events is extensive, but I'm pretty sure no one can pin this back on us." She pauses, weighs the question in her mouth for a moment. "Anyway. Do you mind if I crash for a night? I think you were right; my place is compromised."

"Futon's all yours. There's a fresh batch straight from Celadon if you want any," Domino says, jerking her head toward the cardboard box beside her. "I heard Erica's new shit gets you high as a kite."

Des tilts her head for a second, the last of the shopkeeper's short hair washing back into the darkness of her own as she does so. When she blinks back at Domino, it's with her own eyes once more. "I'm good," she says at last, fingertips deftly skinning the payapa and quartering it. "Gotta process some stuff first."

"Mmm. Stuff?"

"Oak's definitely behind the ambush."

They both pause at that one. Des surprises herself with the whiplash confidence she managed to work into a statement so absurd, but as soon as the words are out, she knows that she's making the only right conclusion here.

"Oak," Domino says. The dubiousness slips into her voice even as she tries to reign it in. "Professor Oak. The head of the Indigo League. Tried to set up you and Ani."

"Yeah."

"Do you think he was cracking down on Team Rocket?" Domino's leaning forward now, the payload next to her utterly forgotten. "That's pretty bold of him, attacking us openly in the streets like that." One finger's twining absently in bleached parts of her hair. "The thing is, I don't think we'd stand a chance if he actually started engaging us in the open like this. You and Ani made it out okay, more because you were there, but we can't keep getting lucky like that."

"That's the weird thing." Des is by the barred window now, bare toes curling in the filthy carpet of their shared apartment. "I don't think he cared about that. We weren't the only people he was after. The other kid doesn't look like our type at all; he's definitely not one of ours and I don't think anyone would get behind recruiting him. Oak was hitting us for something else."

"Who was the other kid?"

Des shrugs. "Some gringo trying to do the gym challenge. He's our age, but that's the only similarity I could find. Oak's keeping _super_ close tabs on him, though. Basically checks in on him every day, which is great for us because it turns out he's in Vermillion right now."

Domino's gaze strays to the huge backpack that Des has deposited on their floor. She does the math a few seconds later. "You aren't planning on going after him, are you?"

"I don't have a choice."

"You don't have a _pokémon_."

One hand, the one that isn't resting on the windowsill, reflexively curls into a fist. "I can handle myself."

" _Des._ " Domino's voice lowers. She cocks her head for a moment—no doubt listening through the paper-thin walls to see if the neighbors are back yet or not—and then continues in a hushed voice. "Look. All of this _reeks_. Ani comes out of nowhere, all-star recruit who whizzes through every test we could possibly ask of him, and then fucking _Oak_ is after him and some random gringo trainer? I vote we don't fuck with this, Des. It's bigger than all of us, and it's gonna suck you in too. And neither of you seem even _remotely_ afraid that you both almost got arrested? Let Ani finish his recruitment, fine, but I'm not putting him out on any high-profile hits for a while, and I don't want you running halfway across Kanto cleaning up his dirty past for him. Let him handle himself and see where the chips fall."

Des's breath hitches in her throat; she takes the moment to look through the faded blue of the wave-patterned curtains as if she's checking for anyone nearby. "He can handle himself too."

"Then _let him,_ Des," Domino presses, leaning back into the sofa. That's what she always does when she thinks she's won. "You're rubbing off too much on him, you know? Yesterday he came in to drop off a shipment and I swear he had that same deadpan look that you did. It's okay to be afraid sometimes, you know? You don't have to always hide behind a mask. You both almost got busted by the puercos. If either of you got caught, that shit would've put you away for life. A little caution never hurt anyone."

Des doesn't answer her question. "You ever seen a green pokémon that wasn't a caterpie or a bellsprout in these parts? Looks pre-historic, a little."

"Venusaur?"

Des shakes her head quickly. "Biped, not quadruped."

Domino can't help it; her gaze is straying back toward the box they've got from Erica; this is how Des knows that she's _really_ losing attention. It's bad form to sample product, after all, but if their conversation is already pushing Domino this close... best not to push her much more. "My cousin saw a grovyle once."

"Is that the lizard one from Hoenn?" Des catches her nod out of the corner of her eye, and frowns. "It didn't really _look_ like a grass type."

Domino sighs in exasperation. "What didn't look like a grass-type?"

Too late. She's switching directions again. "Oak's got tabs out on four of us, I think. Us, that gringo kid, and then this _complete_ rando who looks like she just showed up out of nowhere. Her entire team looks foreign."

"And?"

Des mulls over her next words carefully. She can't risk alarming Domino and setting off this delicate balance that she's managed to achieve. They'll be bound to notice eventually, and if that collapses, there'll be hell to pay. "I think Oak's trying to mess with the League challenge somehow."

" _And?_ "

"Give me a chance to check it out. Let Ani earn his stripes with a mission a little further from home—you already said he can't show his face in Saffron for a while, so have him lay low while poking around Vermillion. Treat it like it's a secret mission for him." Des rehearsed this part for the entire walk back from the pokémart, but it's still hard to make it sound unplanned, like this isn't a lie she's wrapped up too far in. That's always the tricky part. "I'll trail him from afar. See if he pulls any weird shit if he thinks he's solo."

Domino's thinking. Her disdain for this entire situation is written deep into the scowl on her face. "I don't really like this. League stuff is way over our heads."

"We were gonna get noticed eventually, Dom," Des replies in a low voice. "It was only a matter of time. Getting bigger means bigger problems."

There's a weighty silence. In the ten years Des has known her, Domino was never one to make rushed decisions.

At last, she says, "You sure you'll be okay?"

Des braves a weak little smile. Glances at the travelling backpack loaded by the door. "You know I always am."

* * *

 **.**


End file.
